


Christmas with You

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-06 05:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: Five Christmases over forty years with the Mays.





	1. 1976

Mid-December 1976

“And what sound,” Theresa asked the class, “do you think the sheep made?” There was an enthusiastic chorus of _baaa’s_ , with the young teacher joining in and tickling the little girl next to her with the sheep puppet she was holding.

Theresa Brasier was in the midst of an animated Sunday School lesson, teaching a group of four-year-olds about the angels’ visit to the shepherds on the night of Christ’s birth. Each of her students was clutching a paper bag covered in cotton balls, presumably meant to be sheep. Unbeknownst to Theresa, however, she was not observed only by children: Philip May, a first year she had met through the OUCA, was standing quietly in the doorway, enjoying her excited storytelling immensely.

Philip was, to put it bluntly, quite taken with Theresa Brasier, and had been since they’d first met two months ago. She was both beautiful and kind, and in his experience that was not a common combination. She was also quiet, and somewhat shy, and prone to blushing at her own awkwardness. Philip found this charming and endearing and thought it only added to her sweetness.

They had been out a handful of times, and after learning that he was attending churches in Oxford, she had extended a general invitation to join her some weekend at the nearby village church where her father was vicar. He’d arrived this morning, a bit early for the service after having misjudged the time required for the bus journey. A kindly usher had directed him to the classroom where Theresa was teaching Sunday School, and he’d been keenly observing ever since.

Philip had never seen Theresa so natural, so easy, so relaxed—and with the added irony that she was currently the center of attention. She’d even been silly with the children, making them giggle and laughing with them, acting out parts of her story and holding every one of them spellbound. He’d had no idea she could be like this—and it made him like her even more.

“Do you know why Jesus came at Christmas?” Theresa was asking now. “Because He loves you. He loves you, Amy, and you, Sarah, and you, Michael.”

_And you love them too,_ Philip thought. It had never occurred to him that Theresa might love children this much—he hadn’t known, or even wondered, whether she liked them at all. But now he could not help but imagine her as the mother of a large brood, her own little ones gathered around her. Perhaps _their_ little ones. Philip felt his cheeks redden as soon as the thought had formed. He barely knew Theresa Brasier. He had no business thinking about having a family with her.

Yet the grin on his face only grew wider as he continued to watch her.

And then he slowly realized that he was not the only one doing the watching. His eyes fell on a little girl seated in the front row who was staring wide-eyed at him, and he gave her what he thought was a warm smile.

It seemed to have the opposite effect, however, as the girl’s eyes only grew wider and her hand shot into the air with a soft, “Tessa?”

“What is it, Lisa?”

Lisa got up from her seat on the rug to come to Theresa’s side, where she pressed herself close to her teacher as Theresa wrapped an arm around her.

“A strange man,” she said, in the not-whisper of small children, “is watching us.” Theresa whirled around to face him, her face turning a deep shade of pink as she registered who it was.

“Philip May!” she exclaimed. “What…what are you doing here?”

“You invited me,” he said gently, sensing the walls he was always trying to nudge past springing up around her again.

“To _church_ ,” she said. “I don’t think I mentioned Sunday School.”

He grinned. “You should have. I’m glad I got here early enough to hear part of your lesson.”

Something in her must have sensed his sincerity, and a small, cautious smile crept onto her face.

Lisa nudged closer to Theresa, and it seemed to remind her that she and Philip were not alone. “Children,” she said, turning back to her class, “this is my friend Philip. We go to school together.”

Amidst a chorus of tiny _hello’s_ , Philip took a seat on the rug, observing from close range that a tinge of pink never left Theresa’s cheeks as she finished her lesson. He was not sure what pleased him more—her soft blush, or the way she occasionally stole glances at him.

She was soon finished, and Philip watched contentedly as she was given a hug by each child as they left with the parents who arrived at the door, until at last he was alone with her.

“You didn’t tell me you taught Sunday School,” he said as she began gathering up the craft supplies and tidying the room.

“You didn’t ask,” she said simply, and he was reminded that with Theresa, he always had to remember to ask.

“How long have you done this?” he asked her now.

“A couple years…since I started university. I’ve always had the four-year-olds—I love that age.”

“And they clearly love you.”

Theresa blushed again. “I hope so…oh, Tommy’s left his coat,” she said hurriedly, her eyes falling on a jacket tossed on one of the tables. “I’ll take it to the service with us and give it to his mum there.”

“Never mind,” he said, stepping closer, “about Tommy’s coat.”

The usual shy, nervous smile came to Theresa’s face as Philip’s arm slipped around her waist, and her eyes sparkled when he leaned in to whisper, “I’m just glad to have a moment alone with you before church.”

He felt her relax as he kissed her softly—they had only done this twice, and while it had yet to be more than a soft brush of lips, it always left him breathless.

_“Ewww!”_ a small voice suddenly shrieked, and Philip leapt back in shock. “Kissing’s _gross_!”

A little boy whom he assumed must be Tommy, in search of his lost coat, had been standing in the doorway. An expression of absolute horror on his face, he spun around and darted off as quickly as he had come.

Philip glanced at Theresa, unsure how she would take to being caught out by one of her students, but to his relief, she was smiling.

And how wonderful, he realized, it felt to have her laughing in his arms.


	2. 1980

December 24, 1980

“With extra whipped cream,” Theresa said, passing Philip his cocoa mug.

“That’s a lot of extra cream,” he said.

She smiled. “It’s Christmas.”

Philip held his free arm out for her, and, her own mug in her hands, she settled onto the couch next to him, snuggling against his chest with a soft sigh as he kissed the top of her head.

It was Christmas Eve 1980, and they were in Wheatley, a tacit understanding that her mother was not likely to see many more Christmases meaning that there had been no argument about whose parents to spend the holiday with. The Brasiers had now gone to bed, and Theresa, who was eager for a moment of private coziness on her first Christmas with Philip, had suggested hot cocoa by the tree before they went up to her childhood bedroom.

How strange that would be—how beautifully strange, to take a man to her bed in the room she’d grown up in, to make love to her husband under the same roof she’d slept under as a young teen. Not that Theresa minded, of course—she hadn’t been able to get enough of Philip in the three months they’d been married, and the idea of intimacy in a forbidden-seeming location only excited her more.

“I love being married to you,” she said softly, her head resting on his shoulder.

Philip chuckled. “Well, that’s good news. I’m pretty fond of being married to you, too.” He paused, stroking her cheek with the back of two fingers. “Are you enjoying our first Christmas?”

“Oh yes…thank you for letting us come here.”

“Of course, sweetheart. I don’t care where I am as long as I’m with you.”

As important as it was to her to be in Wheatley for Christmas now that her mother was at the end of her life, she could readily identify with Philip’s feeling. What mattered most was having him near.

Because oh, how wonderful that simplest bit of marriage had been! She loved knowing she had Philip to come home to every day after work, loved being able to spend the whole weekend with him and still have him at her side again on Monday, loved falling asleep and waking up together instead of tearing themselves apart at the end of an evening to return to their respective apartments. Her heart still skipped a beat with joy every time she found Philip sitting on her couch and remembered that he lived there now, too.

And they had so many more Christmases left to spend together…that was the most wonderful thing about marriage, that it would go on for decades and decades until the end of their lives. Fifty years from now, she’d still be snuggling with Philip.

That was what she wanted to think about now, not her mother’s illness. For tonight was a blessed beginning.

“What do you think our future Christmases will be like?” she asked him.

“Oh, I suppose there will be children running around at some point.”

“But not too soon.” She wanted a family with him, but she wanted to be selfish with Philip for a few years first, keeping his love and attention all for herself.

“No, not too soon.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But someday, and someday after that, grandchildren.”

Theresa laughed. “Will we ever be that old?” At the moment, she couldn’t quite imagine it.

“Yes, someday you will be old and wrinkled and white-haired, and I’ll be bald.”

She only laughed harder, trying and failing to imagine them elderly. “You’ll never be bald, Philip. You’ve got far too much hair.”

“You forget,” he said as she ran her fingers through his brown locks, “that you married the son of a bald man.”

She kissed him. “I’ll love him anyway.”

As she cuddled closer to Philip and sipped her hot cocoa, Theresa tried to imagine these Christmases of years to come. Tried to imagine their future home, tried to imagine their future children tearing into the gifts piled under the tree, tried to imagine Christmas when she was sixty. She wondered where exactly they would live, how many children they would have and what they would look like, whether one or both of them would get into Parliament, what their lives might be.

And she found that she didn’t really care. All that mattered in any of these imaginings was that she was with Philip.

Philip, who had finished his drink and whose fingers, which had previously been tracing gentle patterns on her shoulder, were now migrating south to her breast.

She set her own mug down and moved closer, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him soundly. His hands grasped her waist firmly, pulling her close, and she felt the familiar tug inside of her as her body fitted against his.

“Theresa…” he murmured when at last they came up for air.

“Upstairs,” she said hoarsely, distantly aware that either of her parents could wake at any moment and wander into the front room.

Philip did not need telling twice. Before she could stand, he had slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her shoulders and lifted her, twirling her around before dashing for the stairs.


	3. 1981

December 24, 1981

It had been a long and emotionally exhausting day for Theresa: they had taken the train down to Wheatley from London that morning and then spent the afternoon sitting with her very weak and sick mother. The visit had not been an easy one: Zaidee could barely speak and had drifted in and out of sleep while Theresa had tried gamely to talk with her about her work, about their apartment, about anything, desperate for one more normal visit with her mother. And it had all been against the falsely cheerful background of the small Christmas tree they had bought in a failed attempt to brighten Zaidee’s small care home room—a reminder of the happy, carefree celebrations going on this weekend in other families.

They’d eaten Christmas Eve dinner in the dining room of the home, a quiet and depressing meal of bland cafeteria meat. It had only been the two of them, of course—Zaidee hadn’t been able to swallow for weeks. Then they’d come back to their hotel, making an early night of it.

So it didn’t surprise Philip to step out of the bathroom after his shower and find Theresa already tucked into bed, facing away from him with the covers pulled up to her chin. The lights were still on, and her posture seemed too stiff for sleep, and so he sat down on his side of the bed, reaching out for her.

“Theresa?” He laid his hand on her shoulder, and at the slight pressure, she rolled onto her back to face him, silent tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Oh, my darling!” Her tears should not have been a surprise after the day they’d had, but she had been so quiet and so still that they had been the last thing he had expected. He quickly climbed the rest of the way into bed so that he could take her in his arms.

“I can’t do this,” she said, beginning to sob as she snuggled close to him. “It–it’s too hard.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He kissed her forehead, his arms wrapped tightly around her. “But you can. You’re so very, very strong.”

But she shook her head and sobbed harder. “Today was _h-horrible_. I don’t want to g-go back to-tomorrow.”

“Theresa, I…” What was he supposed to say to that? _You’ll feel better in the morning?_

“I know I _have_ to,” she continued. “B-but–but…oh _God_ ,” she whispered, and for a moment he thought she might choke on her sobs. “I-I-I don’t think I _c-can_.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed. He kissed her again. “You’ll be able to do it; you’re so strong, and I’ll be with you the whole way—”

“I know I’ll go; I’m just…I’m a terrible d-daughter,” she sobbed. “It’s her–her last Christmas, a-and I should be _hap-happy_ when I’m with her, because next Christmas…next Christmas she won’t…she won’t be here _at all_! But I-I’m not happy and I’m _miserable_ and I h-hate this!”

“Shh,” he tried to soothe, “you’re _not_ a terrible daughter. You’re a very, very good daughter… you’re not happy _because_ you love your mum so much. You—”

“ _Stop_ , Philip!” she burst out, pulling away from him and sitting up. “ _Please_ stop arguing with me!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I _know_ you don’t mean to, but I need you to _stop_! I can’t–I can’t _reason_ right now.” She covered her face with her hands. “It just _hurts_ , Philip, it really _hurts_!”

“I know, darling, I know.” He sat up as well, slowly reaching out for her to coax her back into his arms. She went willingly, half-collapsing against him, shaking with her sobs. “I know it hurts, and it’s horrible and unfair and wrong, and I _hate_ it for you. I hate all of this. Today was horrible for you, and I’m sorry.” He swallowed, feeling his own throat constrict, for the very true words were somehow harder to voice than the false encouragement he had been attempting. Yet they seemed to be what Theresa wanted to hear—she clung to him now, burying her face against his chest, as he rubbed her back.

“I m-miss m-my dad,” she choked eventually, and he slowly realized that this was partly grief for her father, whom she had barely had time to mourn in the midst of the stress of her mother’s care.

He kissed the top of her head. “I know you do. And I’m so sorry, darling. This is horrible for you.”

“It’s–it’s just…it’s C-christmas,” she sobbed a moment later. “And it shouldn’t…it–it shouldn’t…be like this.”

“No, it shouldn’t be,” he said softly. And then he forced himself to be quiet, to hold Theresa gently and say nothing.

“Do you remember the first time you met my dad?” she asked after a moment, drawing shaky breaths as she tried to control her tears. “It was here in Wheatley, at Christmastime.”

Philip could not help but smile at the memory. He’d given his new girlfriend a small kiss alone in a Sunday School room after arriving at her father’s church, only to be interrupted by a disgusted small boy…who must have gone and told the vicar. For when Philip had been introduced to Rev. Brasier after the service, the older man had shaken his hand with the words, “It’s lovely to meet you, Philip. I hear you’ve been kissing my daughter.”

“I think my life flashed before my eyes,” he told Theresa now.

She managed a half-laugh in the midst of her tears. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so speechless.”

“Of course I was speechless. I’d decided that morning I wanted to marry you, and here I’d already put my foot in it with your father.” He kissed her again, and she snuggled closer.

“I don’t want to go there tomorrow,” she said suddenly, her sobs growing again. “Is it—do you think it’s–it’s wrong if we don’t…don’t go to church?”

“Of course not,” he said immediately. Of course Theresa dreaded the thought of returning to her father’s parish, where she would be pawed at by a congregation full of friends and acquaintances all wanting to know how she was, where she would be assaulted by years’ worth of memories of happy family Christmases, and where she would have to watch another vicar take her father’s place.

“You don’t think it’s wrong not to worship on Chris–Christmas morning?”

“No, sweetheart. You don’t need to go. Not if it hurts you, and I know it would. And God knows that, and He knows your heart.”

“I _want_ to go,” she said. “I just—I don’t think I can bear it.”

“Of course not, darling.”

“Because I already—I already have to…to see my mum, and–and I…” She shook her head and buried her face against him again.

“You won’t be alone,” he told her. “You’re not alone at all. I won’t let you be alone for any of this.”

She nodded, her grip on his pajamas tightening.

“You’ll never be alone,” he repeated, beginning to rock her. “I know it hurts, and I’ll carry you through all of it.”

Slowly, she began to calm, her sobs easing and her body relaxing. “I really need you,” she whispered, her voice still thick with the tears that had not yet stopped. “I–I’m not sure I can do this, and I really need you.”

Tonight had been the starkest display of grief he had seen from her in the months since the accident, and this was certainly the boldest statement of need he’d ever heard her make. But as much as it broke his heart, he sensed she’d be the better for it.

“I’ll be with you the whole way, my love. I’ll do anything you need. You can come to me for anything—even if it’s just to be held.”

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I’m sorry you have to be here.”

_“What?”_ He wanted to be here: as awful as it was, he couldn’t bear the thought of not being near Theresa right now, or of dragging her off somewhere else and forcing her to fake happiness.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here; if it weren’t for me you’d be up in Liverpool having Christmas with your family! I hate that this mess has gotten all over you, too.”

“Theresa, I could never have gone to Liverpool right now! I couldn’t have let you come down here alone—”

“No, because we’re married, but if you weren’t with me at all, you wouldn’t _be_ in the middle of all this,” she said with another sob. “It didn’t have to involve you.”

It didn’t, and frankly that thought terrified him. He had thought before how easily they could have gone to different universities and never met, how easily Theresa might have still been single right now. It was not that he thought he was the world’s best husband, that she could not get through life without him, but it frightened him to think of Theresa facing the deaths of both her parents alone, with no family left at all. She could have been lying alone in this dark little hotel room with no one to comfort her, and the thought made his blood run cold.

“I’m _glad_ it involves me,” he told her. “I can’t imagine anything worse than you being alone right now. I don’t want to be unaware and unaffected; I want to be here with you. I want to be with you when you’re hurting. I want to comfort you as much as I can. I love you.”

“I love you t-too,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word, and he kissed her again. “And I’m glad you’re here, but I feel so _selfish_ being glad you’re here!”

“It is not selfish,” he said firmly, “to want your husband to comfort you. It’s not putting me out to want me to hold you and to be at your side when you’re hurting.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Marriage means I carry your burdens with you.”

She was quiet for awhile, slowly settling again. And then, out of nowhere, her voice soft but steady, she asked, “Do you ever regret marrying me? Now that all this has happened?”

“No! God, no. I’m thrilled I’m married to you—I’ve only been more grateful this autumn that we’re married so you don’t have to go through all this alone.”

There was another moment’s silence, and then she said, her voice trembling, “I love you. I really love you.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I love you too.”

It was by no means a happy Christmas, but he could not help but think, as his wife drifted off to sleep on his chest, that nothing in the world could have made him happier tonight than simply having her in his arms and taking care of her.


	4. 1982

December 24, 1982

“You doing okay?” she heard Philip’s voice ask gently.

Surprised, Theresa looked up to see him poking his head into the guest room where she’d seated herself on the made bed, curling up with her Bible.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m okay. I just needed…some space. But you can come in.” They were at his parents’ home in Liverpool for Christmas, along with his siblings, and under the pretense of wanting to rest before the midnight service, she’d stolen away from the chaotic family warmth that both soothed and sharpened her own grief.

Philip smiled and stepped into their room, closing the door again behind him. “Were you reading?” he asked as she set her Bible aside.

“Not really…more just flipping through. I’m just kind of sad.” It was thanks to Philip that she could admit that so easily and plainly. Her inclination had been to swallow her grief and bury her pain, pretending to be all right, pretending to be happy, trying to give her husband the “normal” young wife she thought he deserved. It was Philip who had told her time and time again that it was all right to be sad, all right to cry, all right to need help, all right to need him, all right to want to be held or to be left alone or anything in between.

“I thought that might be the case,” he said as he took a seat on the bed next to her. She snuggled into his arms immediately as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “And it’s all right. It’s natural to be sad.”

“Your parents have been lovely,” she said. “Especially your mum.”

“But that doesn’t make you miss yours any less.”

“No.” She sighed. “No, it doesn’t. I tried…I was trying to pretend that we just happened to be spending Christmas with your family, and we would be visiting mine next weekend instead, but…” Her voice caught, and she felt the heat of tears in her eyes and her nose, and she trailed off, turning to rest her forehead against Philip’s neck. She felt him kiss her hair as he tightened his hold on her, but he was silent as well. That was the other wonderful thing about her husband: he didn’t try to fix what he couldn’t solve, or cheer her into smiling when she didn’t feel like it. He was simply there, a quiet, comforting presence who grieved with her.

“I do have a present I wanted to give you away from the others,” Philip said slowly after he had held her for a bit. “But it’s…something I found in your dad’s office last winter. Would it upset you to see that right now?”

“No, not at all.” She straightened and pulled back, shaking her head. “I’d like that. And I’ve already been thinking about him.”

Philip kissed her again and stood up, moving to open his suitcase. She watched as he removed a large, flat, rectangular package that had been buried underneath his clothes. “This was in his files,” he said as he passed it to her. “And it seemed like something you’d want to keep.”

She nodded, remembering how Philip had sweetly and quietly, without her even having to ask, sorted through so many of her parents’ papers and belongings while she had staggered through her days in a haze of grief. Curious what had seemed worthy of the frame she could feel through the wrapping, she tore off the bright red paper.

He had mounted and framed a wedding photo of the two of them with her parents side by side with a page of notes in her father’s handwriting. “A covenant, not a contract,” was written at the top in the familiar scrawl, with “Ephesians 5” just below it.

Without having to read any further, she knew exactly what this was: his sermon notes from preaching her and Philip’s wedding.

“Darling?” she heard Philip say softly, and she realized she was weeping.

She wanted to tell him how grateful she was that he had been so careful with everything that he’d managed to find this thin little page, when her own instinct would have been to toss it all in the rubbish to spare herself the pain of sorting through her father’s effects. She wanted to tell him this was beautiful and that she loved it and that he couldn’t have given her anything more meaningful. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, and how well he had loved her this past year.

But all she could manage was a whispered _thank you_ while she cried against his chest.


	5. 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in the middle of the long process of getting Theresa diagnosed as a Type 1 diabetic. She was sick for a couple months before she knew she had diabetes at all, and she didn't know what was wrong with her, and then finally she was told she had Type *2* diabetes. (That's where things are in this chapter--she and Philip think she has Type 2.) This of course wasn't what she really had, so she wasn't getting any better because the treatment isn't the same, and she wasn't getting the treatment she needed. It was another few months of her being a wreck before doctors figured it out. If you look at pictures from the autumn of 2012 through the spring of 2013, she looks really sick.

December 25, 2012

Philip could smell the warm, homey scent of the pancake he was currently frying and hear its soft sizzle in the quiet kitchen. It was Christmas morning, and he had plans for these pancakes: plans that involved piles of strawberries and raspberries and sugar-free syrup, plans to make a sweet Christmas morning treat that would be safe for Theresa to enjoy.

She was still sleeping, with no special breakfast in mind before their departure for the morning service. He intended to surprise her with a delicious breakfast in bed, a gift that would have the twin effect of delighting his wife and letting her stay tucked under the covers for a bit longer. And both of those things would please him greatly, more than any present he could unwrap today. Because Theresa—as much as she tried to deny it—had been sick lately, and all Philip wanted to do was take care of her.

She was getting better, or so she said. At least, she was _supposed_ to be getting better; she’d finally been diagnosed, and with a careful diet and medication, things would be normal again. Or so he’d been told. She seemed to him to be just as sick as she had always been, just as tired, just as pale, just as given to headaches and exhausted tears, just as susceptible to every virus that came her way. She’d fought the flu for over a month in the autumn and then been knocked flat with a heavy cold at the end of November that she was just now getting over. He was trying to be grateful that they had a diagnosis, trying to have faith that her body would, as the doctors had promised, adjust, but the only difference he could see at the moment was that she had the added stress of worrying about her meals and pricking her finger several times a day to check the blood sugar that still didn’t seem controlled.

Philip wanted desperately to fix it all.

But at the moment, she was peacefully asleep. That was what he thought she needed most—sleep, rest, a bit of a lie-in rather than rushing off to run the Home Office. Of course, she rarely got that, and he had no doubt her frequent lack of sleep only made her health worse. He’d been looking forward to the Christmas recess primarily because it meant Theresa would have days and days at home to rest—if he could persuade her to do so. She’d been surprisingly amenable thus far to the idea of resting in place of the usual chaos of the weekend before Christmas, and frankly that had troubled him more than stubborn resistance would have.

“Philip?” he heard a soft voice say behind him, and he turned to see Theresa standing in the kitchen, her robe around her and clearly newly awake. “What are you doing?”

He smiled. “I’m making your breakfast, sweetheart. I didn’t know you were up.”

“I wasn’t…I woke up and realised you were gone, so I thought I’d come find you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly. This was a familiar refrain. Much to his relief, Theresa had agreed early on to let him take care of her, as much as she disliked a fuss, because she knew it was the only thing keeping him sane. But she still seemed to feel guilty each time.

“I know I didn’t have to, but I thought it would be nice to bring you breakfast in bed on Christmas morning.”

She gave him her usual apologetic look, and he gave her his usual kiss on her forehead, drawing her close. Theresa snuggled into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Do you want to go back to bed for a bit?” he asked. The whole point of this exercise was to get her a bit of extra time there. “You can lie down a little longer, and I’ll bring this back to you when it’s ready.”

She shook her head. “No, I’d rather be with you.” She kissed his cheek. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, darling.” He wanted to ask her how she was feeling, but he knew how she hated that question, and he’d had his head bitten off for asking it before. He was also usually able to make a pretty good guess at the answer, and based on her clinginess this morning, he suspected she didn’t feel well at all.

Philip let Theresa hang on him as he continued to cook, not really minding the inconvenience if it meant having her near. He could do most of this one-handed anyway.

When he finished, they sat down at the kitchen table, next to instead of across from each other, Theresa scooting her chair close to his so that she could easily kiss him. “This was really sweet of you,” she said softly. “To get up early on Christmas just to make a special breakfast for me…when you’re already the one who’s doing everything around here.”

“Not everything. I’m not the one fighting the health issues and trying to recover and adjust to a new condition.”

“I’m not sure ‘recovering’ is a terribly useful activity.”

“It’s the most useful thing either of us could be doing,” he said firmly. “I want you to feel better.” He kissed her forehead and laid his hand on her knee, stroking her leg gently with his thumb.

“You’ve done a really good job with this,” she said, changing the subject a moment later. “It’s delicious.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, and he could see in her smile that she truly did. “Does it taste like it used to?” He was not quite sure about the sugar-free syrup himself, but he was used to normal sugar, and Theresa was nodding enthusiastically.

“Would you like your presents now?” he asked as he cleared the table after they’d finished. A glance at his watch confirmed that there was still time before they needed to leave for the morning service. “Or would you rather open them this afternoon?”

Theresa smiled. “Breakfast would have been enough of a present. But let’s wait…I want you to have time to look at yours, and we’ll have to go soon.”

“I thought I’d told you not to get me anything?” He hadn’t wanted Theresa out in the cold and the crowds, expending energy and exposing her stressed immune system in an attempt to find a gift for him.

“I thought you knew I wouldn’t listen? And it’s not something I went out for, which is what I think you were trying to prevent. It’s something I’ve made.”

That was a surprise in itself. Theresa did not knit or crochet, and she had no interest in or talent for any particular craft. “What would you have…”

Her smile only grew. “I can’t tell you now; that will spoil it. But I’ll give it to you as soon as we get home.”

They spent the morning at church and then attended Maidenhead’s community Christmas luncheon for widows and widowers, as they had since the 90s. Theresa was determined to cook a full Christmas dinner that evening, but she readily agreed to put off the preparation of the goose and the trimmings until later and relax on the couch with him first.

She was now settled next to him, the obligatory blanket over her lap—he suspected that both her rapid weight loss and the circulation issues that often accompanied diabetes were partly to blame, but whatever the reason, Theresa was always cold these days—and a small, rectangular package in her hands.

“Do you want yours first?” he asked, trying to ignore his curiosity about what she’d made in favour of being a gentleman.

“Yes,” she said, laughing, “if only because I want to do yours last so we can sit and look over it together!”

He had gotten her a bracelet of silver swirls and dark green stones, and a dress she’d been eying in a shop window one afternoon when they’d been on Maidenhead’s High Street, and a new coat that seemed to be of warmer material than those she already owned. And at last she had kissed him and thanked him and tried all of it on, and she was passing him his own gift.

A book, he realized as he took it. A photo album of some sort? It didn’t quite feel like an album, though…it was more like a notebook. He tore the festive paper off to reveal a leather journal, and he looked up at her curiously.

“It’s a book I’ve been writing in,” she said, fiddling with the bracelet she was still wearing as though losing her courage to explain the gift. “This autumn. While I’ve been…” She let the sentence drop, hesitant, as usual, to describe herself as “sick.”

Was this some sort of journal she’d been keeping? Not quite understanding her, he opened to the first page. _September 13, 2012,_ it read at the top in Theresa’s curvy scrawl. _I'm not quite sure how this book will look from day to day, but I am worried and scared and physically drained and I want to focus my attention on the things I'm thankful for; there are many. Most of them center on a husband who accepts my constant exhaustion, one who is content to serve me, one who never expects anything in return for kindness but takes care of me because he loves me. I am tired, but so lucky._

“It’s a book,” he heard her say softly. “Of…of things you’ve done for me. Things I–things I love about you. Because I think…I think every day about how… _blessed_ I am with you,” she said, her voice cracking. It dropped to a whisper as she continued, “And I wanted you to know.”

“Oh, my darling,” he said, reaching out to embrace her. He heard her draw a shaky breath as she buried her face in his shoulder. “I love you so, so much. I wish I could make you feel better.”

“Everything you do makes me feel better,” she said thickly. “Just knowing you love me makes me feel better.”

That was enough to leave his own eyes filling as well, and he held her tightly as he tried—with only a moderate degree of success—to swallow his tears.

At last Theresa raised her head, wiped her eyes, and kissed his cheek, then settled back against him with her head on his shoulder. “Do you want to read it?” she asked him quietly.

“Of course I do, darling.” He could think of no better way to read this book than with his wife snuggled in his arms.

As he silently turned the pages, he read first about how grateful she had been for all the nights she’d come home, dead on her feet, only to be put to bed immediately and served dinner there. The evenings he’d prepared luxurious baths for her to soak in, exhausted, while he rubbed her shoulders. The Saturdays where she’d spent most of the afternoon napping, waking up to find the house completely cleaned.

But of course, Theresa had gotten worse, not better from there, catching a flu virus that her weakened immune system could not fight off for weeks and weeks. Her entries grew more sporadic and shorter here, and, while it was the most painful part for him to read, it was also the most surprising: he remembered little from October other than being half mad with worry, and he could not have recalled being particularly helpful. In fact, he remembered himself as being thoroughly useless, but Theresa told stories of him sitting on the bed and spooning soup and Jell-O into her mouth, getting up at all hours to fetch her a heavier blanket or a heating pad or a cool cloth, and building a nest of pillows and blankets for her on nights she’d spent on the bathroom floor—then lying down to sleep right next to her. “He didn’t bring me a blanket and check on me every few hours,” she’d written. “He got down on the floor and suffered with me.”

She’d recovered, eventually, but it had been obvious that there was still something very wrong: her exhaustion, dizziness, and headaches aside, she’d begun to wet their bed occasionally at night. Knowing how mortified she’d been at the time, he was almost surprised that she had been able to bring herself to write about this. Then he saw how she’d ended the entry: “I don’t think I have ever loved Philip more than when he very calmly got up and changed our sheets in the middle of the night. Then he held me afterwards and let me cry.”

At reading this, he laid his hand gently against her head, which was resting on his shoulder, and turned to kiss her forehead. She sniffed and squeezed his knee.

And then, of course, there was the way she looked. Theresa had lost a dramatic amount of weight in the last few months, quickly moving past thin to skeletal. Her eyes were sunken and rimmed with dark circles, her cheeks were hollow, and even her hair had begun to thin. Love made her beautiful to him, but he was aware of how sick her appearance proclaimed her to be. He was far too worried about her health to worry about how she looked, nor had he taken the time to consider that _she_ might be worried about the latter. Until the day he’d found her in their bathroom, absolutely sobbing. “I’m _hideous_ ,” she’d told him. “And my _hair_ is falling out.” He’d showed her how attractive he found her the best way he knew: by taking her hand and leading her to their bed, where he’d gently undressed her, laid her down, and made love to her, worshipping her body with kisses and caresses while he whispered that she was gorgeous.

Theresa’s body had tensed against him, and he heard her start to cry again as they both read her account of how loved she’d felt that day, and how wanted and desired.

“Let’s finish this later,” he said, hearing his own voice thicken and wanting to hold her. He set the journal on the couch next to him and turned to take her fully into his arms. “Oh, my darling. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered. “I couldn’t…without you, I…I couldn’t…do this.”

He kissed her, gently at first, but then their hunger grew, her tongue slipping past his lips and her arms wrapping around his neck. A few minutes later, he felt her fingertips begin to work on the top button of his shirt.

It would be quite some time before they could return to the book.


	6. 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we all *wish* this Christmas had gone...

December 24, 2017

“I think I’m sick,” Philip whined in the moments after their alarm had gone off on Sunday morning.

Theresa propped herself up on her elbow, examining him. “What’s wrong darling?”

He paused, as though taking stock of his body. This needed to be convincing without appearing so dramatic as to be an obvious ruse. “My throat really hurts. And my head hurts.”

She laid her hand on his forehead, and he gave her his most pathetic look. He knew very well that he didn’t have a fever.

“I don’t think you’ve got a fever,” his wife confirmed, moving her hand to stroke his cheek. “But your eyes don’t look good. Poor baby, getting sick at Christmas.”

He gave her another pathetic look.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

He shrugged. What he needed most was for her to leave for church without him, but he also knew that he had not acquired, in the past forty years of their relationship, a reputation for pushing through an illness on his own without nursing.

“Do you want me to get you anything?”

He tried to look too pathetic to decide. Theresa had begun to stroke his hair, and that felt good even without being ill.

“How about I get you an aspirin for your headache, and make you some hot tea with honey for your throat?”

Philip nodded. He could pretend to take the aspirin, and he liked tea in the morning regardless. Theresa kissed his forehead and then climbed out of bed—which did make him feel a bit guilty, for not letting her lounge for a bit as she usually did on the weekends. However, he didn’t doubt she’d find the eventual result worth it.

She returned shortly with the pills—which he pretended to take and then held in his hand, intending to stash them under his pillow when she looked away—and a warm mug. “Do you want me to stay home with you, sweetie?” she asked, taking a seat on the side of the bed as he sipped the tea.

Certainly not! He was aware, however, that had he actually been sick, a morning spent snuggled in Theresa’s arms was exactly what he would want, and his wife surely knew this. “No,” he whispered, “I don’t want you to have to miss church on Christmas Eve. I want you to be able to go. You’ve been looking forward to giving the girls their gifts.” Theresa had done some shopping for the young girls she’d grown fond of at St. Andrew’s, and she’d been talking for weeks about bringing them presents on the twenty-fourth.

“Yes, but you’re more important than any of that.” She patted his leg. “I can stay home and take care of you if you want me.”

Philip shook his head. He had to get rid of her. “I’m just going to go back to sleep. I’ll probably sleep all morning. There’s no point in you missing church for that.”

“I’d be here if you woke up and needed something—”

_“No,”_ he growled, resorting to his reputation for grumpiness when ill. “I want to be left alone to _sleep_. Go to church!”

Theresa was long past taking offense at this sort of thing, and she sweetly kissed his forehead. “All right, darling, I’ll go to church. But I’m going to get your phone and leave it right her on the nightstand for you, and I want you to text me if you need anything, anything at all. Okay?”

He nodded grouchily and finished the tea while Theresa stepped into the bathroom to get ready. Then he laid down and closed his eyes, feigning sleep, but was careful not to drift off—he had a very important errand to run once his wife left.

Theresa glanced at her phone once she had settled into the backseat after church—still no texts from Philip. No news was good news, she thought: given how needy he usually was when he was ill, she was sure that she would have heard from him had he wanted so much as a glass of water. He was likely still asleep, and she wondered if she ought to wake him when she arrived…she didn’t think he had anything more than a mild cold, and while the rest was likely doing him good, she didn’t want him to be awake all night.

She just hoped awakening him didn’t mean he bit her head off. After three and a half decades of marriage, Theresa was well aware that a sick Philip was usually not a happy Philip.

She’d make lunch first, she decided. That would give him a bit more time to wake up on his own, and if not, she’d at least be waking him with the offer of a meal. Chicken soup with lots of vegetables for the vitamin C, she decided, scrapping her original menu plans. And some hot, buttery cinnamon toast on the side…he always liked that when he was sick.

She’d also try to move him to the couch, where he’d likely feel less sickly than if he were lying in bed all day. She could tempt him out of their room with the promise of cuddles and history documentaries. The latter was not exactly how she’d intended to spend Christmas Eve, but she certainly didn’t mind the former: they tended to spend a lot of their Christmas break snuggling anyway.

Her driver was soon pulling in front of their Maidenhead home, and she thanked him and got out, then let herself in the front door.

She had just shut the door behind her when she heard it: a clicking-clacking sound, getting closer and closer, along with a sort of shuffling.

“Philip?” she called, puzzled at the noise.

Her husband did not answer, but the source of the sound revealed itself when a large chocolate lab trotted into the front hall.

“Where did you come from?” she exclaimed as the dog hurriedly came to sniff her. She patted its head gently as it excitedly nosed against her legs, its paws dancing on the hardwood floor. Did they have a neighbor with a dog like this? She didn’t think so…and it seemed a bit farfetched to imagine it getting not only _out_ of another house, but also _in_ to theirs.

“Philip?” she called again, louder this time. She didn’t care if she woke him…they needed to get this animal dealt with, and returned to wherever it belonged.

Her husband popped his head into the entryway a second later. “Yes?” She was too distracted by the dog to notice that he was fully dressed with no sign of illness in his expression.

“This dog…where did the dog come from?” she asked, aware that her husband did not seem the least bit surprised about its presence.

Philip blinked. “A shelter, of course. It’s an adult dog. Housebroken already.”

That wasn’t at all what she’d meant. “But—whose is it?”

He smiled gently. “Well, it’s yours, of course…I went to get him this morning. Do you like him?”

“Do I _what_?” She couldn’t quite process the first part of his answer.

“Do you like him? That’s the breed you were wanting last spring, right?”

There had, in fact, been discussions during the campaign about getting a chocolate lab puppy, but she had decided against the idea, afraid she wouldn’t have time to care for a pet. But she did love dogs, and she’d wanted it very much, and this would surely be less work than a puppy, and how wonderful to come home to after a stressful day…

“Of _course_ I like him,” she said, letting her smile explode across her face as she looked into the big amber eyes that were staring up at her. “He’s beautiful…oh, Philip!”

The dog gave a soft bark, demanding her attention, and she knelt down to take him in her arms, both laughing and crying as he happily licked his new human’s face.


End file.
